


The Palace of a Thousand Flowers

by gompadre



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, excessive amounts of flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26958649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gompadre/pseuds/gompadre
Summary: Kyungsoo's father sets out to find a cure for his illness, but ends up gambling Kyungsoo off to a terrible Beast for a cure.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 28
Kudos: 100
Collections: ExOnce Upon A Time: Round III





	The Palace of a Thousand Flowers

His father is going to lose. Kyungsoo knows this with the certainty he knows that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. He knows because of the tremble in his father’s hands, a tremble that flutters up the cards and threatens to let them slip from between his fingers. He knows because the Beast’s claws are digging grooves into the teak table, destroying the delicately carved pattern that rings the table’s edge.

They were wealthy, once. They lived up north, across the sea, on mountains of black, loamy earth, under the waxy canopy of red pines, a place where the air was always crisp with cold. But it was that cold air that had claimed Kyungsoo’s mother when he was a child, and it is that cold air that now has settled in his father’s bones, a slow death that transforms each breath into a rattle, a wheeze, a gasp.

His father is desperate. So desperate that when he hears of a magical beast in the islands of the Southern Sea he sells their land for pennies and carts what little belongings they have left onto a ship that will take them to this mythical paradise. Pennies for magic that will cure his rheumy lungs. Pennies for misery. And his father justifies it by parroting the doctor’s words. “Warm air should soften the cold in your lungs, even if that magical beast won’t.”

But traveling south does not help him. The cold rattle becomes a wet cough, throat thick with phlegm each time he speaks. He’s also feverish, but it could be the drink, the golden slosh that smells sickly sweet. He’s never been much of a drinker, but he had not been expecting to _gamble_ for the cure, and so in his agitation his father downed drink after sweet drink til he could hardly keep his eyes straight. He’s already lost their possessions — the carved pine boxes inlaid with mother of pearl, the ink stones made of green volcanic rock, the silks embroidered with gold. His father has nothing left, and the Beast knows it, but Kyungsoo has a feeling this game is not yet over, not with the flick of the Beast’s eyes towards him.

The Beast. Kyungsoo cannot see its face, for it hides behind a mask carved of jet, with curling designs of gold and blue jade, but above the mask are unmistakably feline ears, rimmed with orange and spotted with white. And the Beast’s eyes are molten, honeyed eyes, a sweetness and danger as thick as the heady southern heat. It had given Kyungsoo an orchid the color of a sunset when they arrived, thick-petalled and silken against Kyungsoo’s clammy hands, perhaps a gift to sweeten his disposition because it knew Kyungsoo’s father would lose. It swathes itself in the patterned woven cloth of the islands, which obscures the size of its bulk, but Kyungsoo can see tufts of striped orange and black fur crowning the mask.

“There is nothing more I can give,” his father weeps, cradling his cup close.

“The boy,” says the Beast.

And with that, Kyungsoo is left without breath. The air in the room is truly suffocating. Kyungsoo wants to believe his father will say no. He _needs_ to believe his father will say no, but the sudden pause in his sobs, the bleary eye fixed on the Beast’s mask… his father is desperate.

“If you win, you will get health and riches for free. If you lose, you give me the boy as payment,” says the Beast.

Kyungsoo worries the orchid petals between his fingers. The flower has long since wilted, just as he has, stuffed into the corner of the room beneath candlenut lamps. Beauty, trapped in a cage of banana leaf wallpaper and bamboo lined windows. Yes, Beauty. It’s what the boys in the town would call him, because he is the spitting image of his deceased mother. Wide eyes, full lips, thick dark hair that shines under the cold northern moonlight.

But now that hair is plastered to his forehead, cheeks rouged with heat, and the silks his father insisted he wore are translucent with sweat, the thin fabric buckling with humidity. How adamant his father had been about keeping away from other beastly men! Yet now, with the promise of good lungs and the glimmer of promised gold, his father was willing to serve him up, wrapped in the last of their silks, with a wilted orchid as a garnish.

His father looks down at the cards in his hand; Kyungsoo shifts in his seat, the wicker biting his forearms through the thin fabric, and sits back. In the blaze of the candlenut lamps he sees a queen, a king, and an ace. No wonder his father’s sobs had stopped in an instant. He thinks he can win. He thinks he will be all the richer for his drunkenness, that he will keep his little Beauty, the painful reminder of his dead wife. His father lays down the cards, a manic triumph shining in his eyes, but the Beast, oh the Beast, he sighs heavily, his breath a monsoon of perfumed oil, as he lays down three aces.

A commotion. The serving girls sweep in and collect the cups (and there were many), the empty bottle of sweet gold, the remnants of a cigar his father had been smoking and the Beast stands, head bowed against the low roof.

“Your riches will be brought to this inn. There will be a concoction to heal you among the wealth,” the Beast says.

His father looks at him with fogged eyes, though Kyungsoo doesn’t know if the tears are of joy or grief. Kyungsoo stands, chair hitting his calves, and stares down at his father. He is rage, he is shame, he is defeat, but none of this helps him speak or spit in his father’s face.

“You are my blood, my boy,” his father croaks.

The Beast roars. It is a roar that reverberates through the walls, that shakes Kyungsoo to the bone and sends him crashing back into his chair.

“Blood you were willing to lose in order to save your own hide,” the Beast growls.

His father averts his eyes, but the Beast has already decided the quavering old man is no longer worth its attention. It turns to Kyungsoo, eyes flicking to the destroyed flower in his hands, then back to Kyungsoo’s flushed face.

“I will have you picked up in the morning,” the Beast says, and with that it leaves.

The morning. The Beast thinks one last night with his father is a mercy, but Kyungsoo can’t bear to look at him. He forsakes dinner, unable to stomach the sight of his father’s face, torn between elation and grief. Instead he retreats to a corner of the inn, hidden by a fragrant potted white ginger, to watch the rain pour.

—

He doesn’t sleep. His father bids him good night, a trembling hand brushing sweaty strands off Kyungsoo’s forehead, but Kyungsoo doesn’t budge. Even when the candlenut lamps are reduced to smoldering embers, and the servants do not replace them, he stares out of the window into the roaring darkness, the sheet of rain that pummels the earth and cools the air. When dawn comes, it comes with the slow shuffle of the inn waking itself, apologetic hostesses and bleary eyed guests, the morning air fragrant with freshly watered earth. The rain stops with the sunrise.

After a bitterly silent breakfast with his father (this last meal he will allow, even if it means resentment sits with them like an obstinate guest determined to sour the food in their mouth), the carriage arrives, if it can be called that. It has a teak frame and bamboo walls, garnished with knots of ylang-ylang. The contraption is drawn by a strange animal, lush silken fur on its long, long neck. It fixes an indifferent eye on Kyungsoo, then goes back to chewing on sweet grass. His father, thankfully, makes no move to follow him; instead the man stays at the entrance of the inn, sniffling and sobbing and lamenting the loss of his Beauty, the one reminder of his dead wife. Kyungsoo clambers into the carriage without looking back.

Inside awaits a bouquet of royal poinciana in red and yellow, another attempt by the Beast to placate him. Kyungsoo almost throws it onto the floor, but the flowers are beautiful and his heart is raw, so he holds it to his chest instead, pressing himself into the corner, forehead to window frame.

He tries to memorize the path, but he’s used to twisting pines, to a forest porous enough for the cold northern breeze to pierce it. No matter how fiercely he stares out of the carriage window (and the stare is _quite_ fierce given how much his eyesight sucks), he cannot make out anything except dense green. It’s vines upon moss upon lush leaves, a great tangled puzzle of foliage that he can’t even begin to comprehend. He tries counting the clusters of bamboo that break up the jungle, but it’s no use.

In the end he succumbs to his own growing lethargy, a combination of the sleepless night and the warmth of the day.

It’s not a peaceful slumber. He wakes often, but drifts off to sleep just as quickly as he woke. That is, until he spies between the trees the unmistakable silhouette of island houses. Three of them, evenly spaced out, and well cared for. Servant’s lodges, he assumes, though three cabanas seems meager given the deference the Beast was treated with. Kyungsoo expected a village-within-an-estate. Well, he had yet to see the palace, but he’s already a little miffed, his opinion sullied. With one last sniff, he curls into his corner again and falls asleep.

The contraption comes to a stop and Kyungsoo clambers out on wobbly legs. Despite the simmering bitterness in his chest, he can’t help the awe that washes over him. The palace is wedged in the juncture of the valley, a pearl pressed into the seam of a bivalve, and on either side the arms of the valley extend, the stone a pleated verdant sleeve. It gleams in the noon sun, polished andesite stone foundations upon which stand pillars and walls of rosewood, and a roof of glazed black tiles in the shape of palm leaves. The grounds around it are meticulously manicured, brilliant ti trees bunched near the entrance, hibiscus shrubs clustered around slender palms, orchids of blue and orange and pink in bright bursts, hanging from mango trees. A neat path snakes between the plants, which Kyungsoo follows.

It takes him longer than it should have to reach the entrance, but Kyungsoo _is_ dragging his feet. He wants to savor the silence, the fresh breeze between the fronds, the sweet floral perfume. But he can only stall for so long until his feet bring him to the entrance.

The door is massive, an elaborate work of ironwood carvings, polished to a warm glow. Among the designs, Kyungsoo finds a feline’s face, poinciana flowers, bird of paradise, a mass of gardenia flowers, mussel shells and little feline paws. He leans closer to get a better look when the doors swing open. He blushes and steps inside.

The first thing he notices is the scent. The lamps are filled with sweet smelling oils, enough to linger after a strong breeze but not strong enough to be cloying. Then he notices the courtyards, gardens overflowing with uncurled ferns bigger than himself. Beyond the pillars, lush foliage and the sound of gurgling water, and to either side long hallways stretch to rooms Kyungsoo cannot see. He lingers here, unsure of where to go, feeling more vulnerable within these strong walls than he did out on the path.

A pygmy marmoset lands in front of him with a muffled plop. And Kyungsoo, on edge, lets out a scream he stops only by stuffing his fist in his mouth. The marmoset gives him an amused look, then waves a diminutive hand at Kyungsoo for him to follow. The hallways seem endless, flanked by lush courtyards or heavy stone arches, but at last the marmoset stops in front of a door, heavy rosewood with a menagerie of flowers carved on it. The marmoset waits for Kyungsoo to push the door open, tail curled apprehensively, so Kyungsoo does just that, but the sight of what lies beyond the door leaves him breathless.

His room is decadence. Mosaics of abalone shell and polished coral, delicately carved nephrite accents on the walls, and a ceiling of rosewood beams. By the bed, which is big enough for Kyungsoo to fit in it at least nine times over, sprigs of night-blooming jasmine, which are tightly curled up in the light of the noon sun. He and his father had been considered quite wealthy up north, but this is different. This is affluence of another kind, of the excessive kind; everything is steeped in opulence. Everything is carefully crafted to be beautiful, to be soft, to be pleasing, to fill Kyungsoo with a sense that he is just as precious as everything this room is crafted out of.

Still no sign of the Beast. The marmoset, clearly done waiting, tugs on Kyungsoo’s pinkie and hops off the bed; he runs to the thick stone door and waits with a twitching tail. Kyungsoo follows him.

The bath is fed by a short waterfall, the air thick with steam and perfumed soaps, and just breathing them in makes Kyungsoo feel cleaner. This room is mother of pearl and ammolite, an almost dizzying iridescence that forms a dazzling beach sunset from the glowing sky to the sun-tinged sea foam. The marmoset, apparently satisfied that Kyungsoo knows what to do, makes its way out of the room. Kyungsoo is finally alone. And just like that, exhaustion weighs on him so heavily he can hardly breathe. For a moment, he just takes in the steam, sinking to his knees and spreading his hands on the warm tile. Eventually, the desire to wash the cooling, sticky sweat wins over his fatigue, so he undresses and walks into the bath.

By the time he’s clean and clothed (in bamboo silk in a pattern of greenery, a fabric that is at once heavy and soft, but still cool), the marmoset is back, holding a plumeria. The diminutive monkey places the flower behind its ear, then holds it up for Kyungsoo to do the same. Kyungsoo tucks it behind his left ear, but the marmoset squeaks and chitters, gesturing for him to change it. He switches it to the right ear and the marmoset gives him an appraising nod, then hops along to the door of his room.

—

Dinner is a lavish affair. It is fish at least ten different ways (in coconut sauce, with pepper flakes that even from the other side of the table make Kyungsoo’s eyes water, delicately fried, steeped in garlic… he thinks it impolite to cut a piece from each but he does so anyway), and fried breadfruit, and blue crabs with a chive and chili sauce, and sweet puffed coconut fritters, and crispy cassava bread, and squid ink rice, and pork in mango sauce, and pork buried beneath golden, broiled slices of pineapple. At the head of the table, the Beast. It has removed its elaborate costume to reveal molten fur, rivers of gold and black, an eruption in its prime. It’s hard for Kyungsoo not to be fascinated; what he wants most is to be furious, but instead he’s entranced by the ripple of fur, the elegant heavy face framed by refined whiskers. The Beast’s ears twitch, and it gives Kyungsoo a curious look.

“I am not familiar with the customs up north, but you need not wait for my permission to begin eating, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” says the Beast.

Kyungsoo averts his eyes, cheeks flushed as he begins to pile food onto his plate. He picks indiscriminately, until he ends up with more than he certainly can fit in his stomach. A thoughtful bite of the garlic-steeped fish, which practically melts in his mouth, and Kyungsoo muffles a moan. The food looked delectable, but he, foolishly, hadn’t expected it to taste so _heavenly._ And so he eats, savoring each bite with reverence, until he’s eaten enough that he can form words again.

“Why?” Kyungsoo asks.

The Beast blinks and tilts its head, ears swiveling. “What do you mean?”

Kyungsoo looks down at his plate, then back at the Beast. “Why me? Why make that deal when you knew my father was going to lose?”

The Beast sighs. “I wanted to see what kind of person he was, if he was willing to give up his own flesh and blood to save his life. I had a feeling he would, given the ease with which he parted with everything else. It was as if you were not in the room with us. I knew I could not leave you with a man who did not value your life.”

“So you choose to take me instead,” Kyungsoo asks, voice sharp.

The Beast bows its head, shame weighing on its ears. “Ah, yes. I cannot claim to be virtuous; I desire company, and to gaze upon one as beautiful as you— well, I could not resist. I do not expect that you will forgive me for this, and I understand. I do not forgive myself either. Still, I cannot keep you against your will. If you truly wish to return to your father, then you may do so. I only ask that you visit. It gets unbearably lonely out here.”

Kyungsoo is quiet. He hadn’t been expecting the Beast to be so sincere; the pain of long years of isolation is thick in the Beast’s voice, so much so that Kyungsoo’s heart pangs in pity. Perhaps he has been too harsh, and the Beast _has_ given him his freedom back. But where will Kyungsoo go? Back North? That’s not an option, not when he has no home to return to. To his father? But he knows he cannot face the man who jumped at the chance to pawn him off. To the town? He knows no one here, and he is not useful, in part because his soft imprudent father spoiled Kyungsoo so rotten that he knows nothing but the pampered life of a noble’s son.

And, well… the Beast’s palace is paradise. He might not stay here forever, because that seems rude (and lazy) on Kyungsoo’s behalf, but for now…

For now he eats.

—

This is his first leisurely morning since his father sold their home. For weeks, they had been on the road, miserably long days that began when the sun’s timid rays crested the horizon and ended when the nights grew too cold to do much else but sleep. The two weeks on the ship were tumultuous, and Kyungsoo spent more time emptying the contents of his stomach overboard, awash in salt spray, than he had resting. But today he wakes up long after the sun has risen and stretches until his muscles give out. The quality of his rest had been just as decadent as the room itself, and Kyungsoo finds himself loathing the idea of leaving the cool sheets.

But he does. Eventually. The marmoset seems a little aggravated at Kyungsoo’s pace, chittering under its breath as it guides him to the dining room once more, but once Kyungsoo offers him a mango the little creature is mollified.

After breakfast, Kyungsoo wanders into the inner garden. Well, one of many, as he soon discovers. This one has a view of a pond with crystalline water; it is fed by a gurgling brook, the ripples of which send the lilies pad on a gentle spin. A banyan tree provides shade, its massive trunk dressed with spider lilies and kahili ginger.

The Beast is stretched out by the pond, chin resting on the stone rim with closed eyes. Kyungsoo considers leaving, but as soon as he takes a step back the Beast opens its eyes.

“You stayed,” the Beast says. Its voice is even but Kyungsoo still hears relief beneath the veneer of nonchalance.

“I have nowhere to go,” Kyungsoo says; he sits on the largest stone he can find (and suspects the person-shaped dipped in it is not entirely natural) and looks at the Beast’s paw as it hangs over the lip, water lapping at its claws. “And this place is beautiful.”

The Beast snuffles, shifting its great head to fix an eye on Kyungsoo. “The Palace of a Thousand Flowers was famed for being paradise within paradise,” it says wistfully.

“Was?” Kyungsoo asks.

A pause, quiet but for the gurgle of the stream and the Beast’s melancholic sigh.

“The same greed that gripped your father led to this palace becoming what it is now, a lost gem, a place apart from the world,” the Beast says. “To covet that which does not belong to you as if it already belongs to you… that can ruin you from within.” A breathy chuckle. “Though I can no longer be so judgmental of those who act upon their desires, can I?”

“But you do not keep me here against my will,” Kyungsoo says.

“Ah, but that is the bare minimum, is it not?” the Beast says.

Kyungsoo muses for a moment. “I’m grateful nonetheless. You’re an excellent host.”

“Speaking of the palace,” the Beast says, “it is yours to explore and live in, but I ask only that you do not go into the Eastern Wing.”

Kyungsoo almost blurts out a “why?” but in a rare moment of restraint keeps the imprudent question from passing his lips.

“Of course,” he says instead.

Perhaps he would not have given it much thought if the Beast hadn’t mentioned it. But now that he stands in front of the imposing doors of the Eastern Wing, curiosity itches at him like an ill-placed mosquito bite. He wonders what those doors hold, what awful secrets might be hidden by thick rosewood. Perhaps the Beast is truly a Beast that delights in tearing virginal flesh from bone; perhaps the Beast likes to hunt the villagers at night and keeps their bones as trophies.

Kyungsoo decides his imagination is uncooperative. He shivers and walks on.

After dinner, he finds the Beast out on the balcony; from this point they can glimpse the glittering sea beyond the mountains, though the breeze still smells like the humid greenness of the jungle.

“Don’t you feel trapped here?” Kyungsoo asks.

One of the Beast’s ears twitch. “What do you mean?”

Kyungsoo sits on a bench and looks out at the blue-green jewel that is the lagoon, ringed by sharp black rock. Beyond that, the indigo silk of the ocean that stretches until it meets the northern continent, a mere smudge on the horizon. Kyungsoo’s home.

“I mean all this water,” Kyungsoo finally answers. “I feel like I’m going to drown.”

The Beast snorts. “I’m not fond of the water myself, you know, but there is beauty in it. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

Kyungsoo swallows hard. “It scares me. On the voyage south I felt I was in a cage,” he says softly.

“Fear of something as vast and wild as the ocean is wise,” the Beast says.“But I suppose I do feel trapped, though it is not by the water.”

Again, Kyungsoo bites back an imprudent _why,_ much as he wants to ask. He looks back out over the darkening sky, the ocean that absorbs the night until everything is velvet black. It reminds him of the earth back home, a darkness so dense it looks soft. A darkness that is equal parts comforting and terrifying, qualities it shares with the Beast. It is the same darkness that cloaked goblins searching for their next unsuspecting victims among the pine needles, and the same darkness of his mother’s hair as it cloaked Kyungsoo when he would sit on her lap.

“Thank you,” the Beast says.

“Hm?”

“For not asking why I feel trapped,” the Beast answers.

Kyungsoo looks at it; the sincerity in its molten eyes makes Kyungsoo feel guilty. He’d _wanted_ to ask why, and he still wants to know, but there’s a weight to the Beast’s gaze, a mix of sorrow, despair, and even, to Kyungsoo’s surprise, desire.

“I bid you good night, Beauty,” the Beast says at last.

It presses its snout to the back of Kyungsoo’s hand, then walks off before Kyungsoo can respond. He’s left there, with his questions filling the darkness.

—

The next morning, after a breakfast of coconut pudding, guava jelly and cheese, and a thick cup of coffee, the Beast keeps his promise. They weave through the mountain rock until they reach the beach (on a path that loops and turns so often Kyungsoo finds himself dizzy _and_ lost). The sun’s heat is already beginning to weigh in the air, but the ocean breeze is nearly constant, fresh brine to wash the lingering humidity that clings to him.

“You’ll find that dipping your paws in the water is wonderfully refreshing,” the Beast says, tail twitching.

It springs towards the waves, splashing the froth of the waves with its paws. That so great a Beast can have fun, and can look like a kitten doing so— it confuses Kyungsoo. He expects solemnity from the Beast, because, as far as he’s gathered, it’s a creature that is burdened so heavily with grief that it cannot conceive of much else. But this Beast, prancing along the waves and waiting for Kyungsoo with perked ears, this Beast makes Kyungsoo feel more at ease. So Kyungsoo offers him a smile and slips off his shoes, then wades into the water until it’s just above his ankles.

“Ah! What is that?” Kyungsoo squeaks.

“Oh, those are just fish, Beauty,” the Beast says, chuckling. “They’re trying to clean you.”

“They tickle,” Kyungsoo huffs, ears red as he looks down at the silvery creatures.

“Well, they won’t nip at you if you’re moving,” says the Beast. “Last one to the cove is a fermented fish.”

And without warning, the Beast takes off. Kyungsoo screams out a protest then begins to run, as best he can when the wet sand and water hamper him, which is not very well at all. Naturally, the Beast arrives before Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo collapses onto the sand in a heap. He’s completely drenched, but protests nonetheless when the Beast shakes itself.

“You’re already soaked,” the Beast chuckles.

“And you’re a cheat,” Kyungsoo hisses.

“Oh, Beauty, don’t be cross with me,” the Beast pleads.

“Why not?” Kyungsoo huffs.

The Beast droops, shuffling towards him and pressing its snout against Kyungsoo’s cheek.

“Come, I’ll show you where to get the best shells,” the Beast says.

“Winning me over with pretty baubles, eh?” Kyungsoo says, crossing his arms. “Fine, show me where they are.”

In truth, he’s quite curious. His home had been landlocked and mountainous, a place to find strange rocks and petrified wood; the only shells he’d seen had been smashed to pieces by the most unpleasant boys in town (the merchant who brought the rare shells dealt with the boys accordingly).

But this place, just round the corner from the cove… well, it takes Kyungsoo’s breath away. There are shells upon shells, the nacre shimmering in the sun and spray, and there are pieces of bright coral, and crab claws polished by the sand, and pearls of blue and yellow and green and black.

He crouches amid the sand, picking up each and every shell and pearl and piece of coral he can find to inspect closer. The Beast brings him a few too, dropping them on Kyungsoo’s lap and waiting for Kyungsoo’s gasps or squeal before it wanders off again.

And that is how the morning passes, until Kyungsoo’s pockets are full and his neck hot from the noon sun, which even the ocean breeze can no longer mollify.

“Ah, we’ve gotten to the time of day when the sun is heavy,” the Beast says with a snuffle. “Come, I’ll find you a place to cool down.”

And so Kyungsoo finds himself following the Beast back across the beach, down the same roaming paths (or so he assumes, because he is hopelessly lost), until they come across a stream.

This stream meanders through the wrinkled folds of the mountains. The Beast tells him this is where its estate begins, and Kyungsoo notices that what looks like wilderness is carefully sculpted; the bushes are the right amount of overgrown, the palm trees perfectly manicured, and the ground is free of unsightly brown leaves. The canopy of palm fronds and ginger lilies provides a welcome respite from the harsh afternoon sun, and once again the breeze blows the hair off Kyungsoo’s sweaty neck and cools him down. It’s then that he realizes he’s actually quite hungry, and that he wants to bathe the salt from his skin, but the path wanders on alongside the path with no sign of ending.

Something wriggles under a shrub. Kyungsoo stops, at first frozen in pre-emptive disgust as his imagination conjures insects so terrifying even the Beast would run from them. Then he sees a little flipper, the edge of a hard shell, a terrified beady eye, and his heart stops. The Beast has seen the little turtle too, heavy paws padding along the slate stones of the path; Kyungsoo wants to scream, to pull the Beast away, to hurl, to faint. What had he been _thinking_ entertaining even the most basic level of trust for a Beast like this? A Beast that would certainly devour a frightened baby turtle tangled in the underbrush. The Beast dips its head and Kyungsoo closes his eyes, shoulders tensed against the inevitable _awful_ sound—

“Little help,” the Beast murmurs.

Kyungsoo’s eyes flutter open. The turtle is on the Beast’s snout, flapping its flippers madly. Kyungsoo’s stomach flips.

“You want me to help you _eat him?”_ Kyungsoo shrieks.

The Beast’s eyes widen. “To put him in the stream.”

“Oh!”

Kyungsoo scrambles to the Beast’s side at last, breath held as he coaxes the turtle further up the Beast’s snout. It helps him ignore the awful guilt that twists his stomach into knots.

The creature complies and lands a resounding flippery slap on the Beast’s eye.

“Ouch.”

“I’ll live,” the Beast says, walking towards the gurgle of the water. “Make sure he doesn’t flip over.”

Kyungsoo nods, hesitant as his fingers hover over the turtle’s shell.

It’s not easy work to coordinate their steps, but they make it to the stream at last, Kyungsoo’s fingertips steadying the creature until the Beast lowers its great head, snout underwater, and the turtle slips into the stream.

“I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

“Hm?”

“For thinking you were going to eat him.”

“Ah,” the Beast shakes himself, then scratches an ear. “It’s the teeth, isn’t it? Worry not, this isn’t the first time someone has made that assumption.”

“Oh.”

Somehow, that makes Kyungsoo feel worse. That the Beast is a gentle creature within such an awful body, destined to be judged by the size of his canines, by the bulk of his body, by the timbre of his roar, and Kyungsoo judged him so, made him a Beast of evil— guilt makes it hard for Kyungsoo to swallow, which is just as well, since his hunger has since abated. It’s enough for him to avoid the Beast for the rest of the day.

—

It becomes a tradition for them to meet in the library after lunch. It is the perfect place to escape the heat, between shelves of rosewood and the faint scent of tobacco and black pepper (which the Beast assures him is for the preservation of the books, and not some strange island spell). On most days, the wide louvered shutters are thrown open to let in a mild breeze, and Kyungsoo sips iced passion fruit cocktails and stretches his legs on the daybed. The Beast will tumble onto its side and splay itself on the floor, tail flicking in the sultry breeze. Sometimes Kyungsoo falls asleep; sometimes he wanders the shelves and pulls out books at random. Most times, he just appreciates the images, the bright stains of ink that depict lush jungle greenery, a myriad of flowers twisted into intricate patterns, but on one of these leisurely shelf-wandering days he finds a book he’s not sure he should have found. Within the pages are lewd illustrations, young men entwined in lascivious positions, their pleasure portrayed in pearlescent ink that splatters across expensive textiles. He closes the book with a decisive thud and curses under his breath as he fumbles to place it back with sweating hands. Thankfully, the Beast does not question his red ears.

But on this day, as Kyungsoo savors the tartness of today’s cocktail (made of hog plum, which Kyungsoo prefers in cocktail form, given that the fruit’s fibers condemn him to an evening of plucking them from his teeth), he rests his cheek on the cool side of the embroidered pillow and looks at the Beast.

“What’s your favorite story?” he asks.

The Beast, who had been lazily grooming one of its massive paws, fixes an ardent eye on him and lets the paw flop onto the tiled floor.

“Hm, that’s a difficult one,” the Beast says, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

“Aw, please,” Kyungsoo whines, pouting as he hugs the pillow close.

The Beast eyes him, then lays itself flat on the cool floor with a sigh.

“Once upon a time there was a couple that lived in paradise,” the Beast began. “They could speak to the creatures of the jungle and waters of the lagoon and the thousand thousand flowers, and they could command the monsoon wind and the winter wind, but they could not have children. They tried and tried until they asked the creatures and the lagoon and the flowers for help. Each one promised to give the couple a child, and it was so. They had three daughters; one as wild and mischievous as the creatures of the jungle, one as serene and protective as the lagoon, and one as beautiful and placid as the flowers. But the mother still wanted another child, and so she asked the winds to gift her with one more. The winter wind was timid and refused her, but the other took her on her offer. The woman had a boy as temperamental and mercurial as the monsoon wind, a wild thing, but she loved him more than she loved anything else in this world. And so they all lived together happily, until the sisters began to drift, drawn to the different corners of this island paradise. The boy stayed, but this would doom the couple to an awful fate, for one day a witch came.”

Kyungsoo slips off the daybed and lands on the Beast; it lets out the smallest _oof_ but lets Kyungsoo get comfortable, burying his face in the Beast’s side.

“She was cold as the depths of the ocean, a thing of ice and cruelty, and when she saw this boy with all the wildness and heat of a monsoon wind, she desired him,” the Beast pauses and licks its snout, almost pensive in his silence. “But he did not want a person so cold, so he refused her. In her anger, she cursed him to never be loved by anyone but her. He needed only to declare that he would take her as his wife to break his curse, but he would not bind himself to a loveless marriage.”

The Beast lapses into silence. Kyungsoo waits, twining his fingers in the Beast’s fur, but the silence stretches on with a finality that makes him think the story is over. But it can’t be, can it?

“Did he ever break the curse?” he finally asks.

“Hm?”

“The boy, did he break the curse?” Kyungsoo repeats.

The Beast is quiet once more, tail twitching, then it raises its great head as a breeze blow through the room. The marmoset, uncurling itself from its sleep upon the daybed pillow, hops down and clings to the Beast’s neck, a diminutive hug.

“I don’t think so, Beauty,” it says softly. “I don’t think so.”

—

Most nights, Kyungsoo and the Beast rest on the balcony to watch the sunset, then enjoy the night breeze until one of them succumbed to sleep (usually Kyungsoo), and they would retire. On those nights, Kyungsoo went to sleep smelling of incense and jasmine, limbs pliant from succulently fruity post-dinner wine.

But on this night, the Beast insists Kyungsoo follow him out of the palace. It refuses to explain, saying only that it is a surprise; it snuffles a laugh when Kyungsoo kicks a pebble in protest.

Soon, the beach comes into view again, black sand still warm from the sunny day, the water ablaze with the setting sun’s light. The Beast is ablaze as well, absorbing the orange and yellow of the sky until it becomes an ember flopping onto the sand.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was to watch the sunset?” Kyungsoo huffs.

“Because it’s not just for that,” the Beast says simply.

Kyungsoo meets its eyes, but when the Beast merely licks its snout Kyungsoo settles on the sand and leans on it. They wait there until the fire of the Beast’s fur melts into the sunset; Kyungsoo almost falls asleep, lulled by the warmth of the sand beneath him, the Beast’s comforting purr, the gentle rush of waves lapping at the shore.

“Don’t sleep just yet, Beauty,” the Beast says with a rumbling chuckle.

“I can’t guarantee my eyes will stay open,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

“You can sleep in tomorrow, I promise,” the Beast says. “This is worth it.”

Kyungsoo fakes a yawn, but the Beast sees past his ruse. Yet it plays along, which Kyungsoo is not expecting. He certainly isn’t expecting the Beast’s coarse tongue across his forehead, combing his hair back.

“Oh, that’s _awful,_ ” he moans, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Why would you do that?”

The Beast chuckles, its canines sharp in the starlit night. “I had to keep you awake somehow.”

“Well, I’m definitely not sleepy now,” Kyungsoo grumbles.

“Good, then you’ll enjoy the show,” the Beast says, unbothered by the bite in Kyungsoo’s voice.

It settles back comfortably, stretched across the black sand just out of reach of the froth of the waves. Kyungsoo takes up the unspoken offer and drapes himself across the Beast’s back.

“Promise you won’t fall asleep,” the Beast rumbles.

“I _won’t,_ ” Kyungsoo huffs, resting his cheek against the warmth of the Beast’s fur.

Yet as the night winds on, Kyungsoo finds that promise hard to keep. He’s fallen asleep against his will, at least until the Beast’s tail brushes against the small of his back, which he knows is a warning. He’s about to ask what they’re there for when the first star streaks across the sky. He gasps, fingers tangling into the Beast’s fur as the stars blaze across the ink and wink out.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly.

The Beast hums its assent, its graceful silhouette outlined by the twinkling sky.

“It’s not often they fall like this,” the Beast says.

“What do you think happens to them?” Kyungsoo asks.

The Beast takes its time to answer. Kyungsoo has noticed this about the Beast, that it is cautious, thoughtful, intense. It entertains Kyungsoo’s questions without judgement. Or so Kyungsoo thinks.

“I think the wind collects them,” it answers at last.

Kyungsoo sucks his teeth. “I’m serious!”

“As am I, Beauty,” the Beast says. “I think the wind collects them to give them as a gift to the ocean.”

Kyungsoo mulls over the Beast’s answer, looking at the pearly sea froth as it washes over the black sand.

“That’s sweet,” he finally murmurs.

“Hm,” the Beast hums, snuffling a chuckle when Kyungsoo yawns. “Alright, alright, Beauty, let’s get you back to the palace.”

“I’m not _that_ tired,” Kyungsoo huffs, and promptly stumbles over his own feet.

“Hold on to me so you don’t fall,” the Beast says anyway.

Kyungsoo does so, begrudgingly, and lets the Beast guide him back.

—

On the rare days in which it is cool, they spend time in the gardens. Kyungsoo finds it hard to pick a favorite; there are simply too many and he hasn’t seen them all yet, and though he’s curious to explore them all, he finds himself coming back to one of the smaller ones. A pond dominates it, fed by three waterfalls, and it is ringed by massive rocks and slender palms. Kyungsoo is on one such rock, legs tucked beneath himself, with the Beast beside him, but today, for some reason, the Beast is not quite itself.

The Beast is almost timid. It shuffles closer to Kyungsoo, the gentlest brush of its snout against Kyungsoo’s hand; it pauses, as if astounded by its own boldness. Kyungsoo bites back a smile as he reaches out and parts the Beast’s brilliant fur with his fingers. The Beast’s ears twitch then flatten against its great skull, eyes trained on Kyungsoo as he guides the Beast’s head onto his lap.

“My mother used to tell me a story,” Kyungsoo starts, “of the ocean as a terrible place. It was where souls went after death. To look upon the ocean was to ask for the ancestors to take you with them. At night they would become stars, hovering above the water, and if you looked upon them they would whisper your name until you heard nothing but their call, and you would wade into the cold waters to join them.”

“Hm,” the Beast closes its eyes and leans into Kyungsoo’s hand. “When you live surrounded by the ocean you learn to love it and fear it. I’ve never heard of such a tale among the people of the island, but I must say, you were remarkably composed viewing the stars for someone who grew up on such a tale.”

Kyungsoo snorts. “I don’t think I believed it. The closest we had to an ocean was the lake at Emperor’s Peak, and it was not a place anyone but the royal family could visit. The ocean was as much a myth to me as dragons and nine tailed foxes.” He continues petting the Beast, scratching just below its ears. “And I don’t think the ancestors would call to me with you by my side.”

The Beast lazily opens an eye and fixes it on Kyungsoo. “And why is that?”

Kyungsoo smiles at the Beast. “Because you’re like a torch, a beacon on the beach. They can’t compete with your radiance.” He presses a quick kiss to the Beast’s snout, smile widening at the Beast’s flustered look.

“Ah,” the Beast says softly. “You are too kind.”

“You’re the kind one,” Kyungsoo says. “Don’t deny it, it’s the truth.”

The Beast buries its face in Kyungsoo’s lap. “Oh, now you’re exaggerating.”

“Don’t be a bashful baby,” Kyungsoo teases, tugging on one of the Beast’s ears. “I mean what I say.”

The Beast eyes him again, looking kitten-like once more, then rests its head on Kyungsoo’s lap.

“If I accept it will you keep petting me?” the Beast asks.

“Yes,” Kyungsoo giggles. “Yes, I will.”

And he keeps his promise, running his fingers through the Beast’s fur until the lanterns flicker to life.

—

For three months, Kyungsoo walks past those doors. He tries not to look at them, but each time he finds himself standing in front of their imposing height and wondering what they hide. And each time, he tells himself that the Beast, in his infinite kindness, deserves Kyungsoo’s respect, and he moves on.

Except today, he doesn’t.

Kyungsoo takes a step closer and reaches out to touch the doors. When nothing happens, he lets out the foolish breath he’d been holding; yet relief does not flood him, not yet, not when he knows he will not heed the tension that is tying his stomach in knots. He lets his fingertips drag across the cool wood, takes a deep breath, drags them back to the doorknob. But he needs something for comfort, something he can hold so he does not lose his way.

He takes a lantern, breath held when the oil sloshes. It does not spill onto the cotton of his shirt, thankfully, but the warm slickness that soaks the thin soles of his slippers confirms that he did, in fact, spill some onto the floor. Kyungsoo decides it’s more effort than it’s worth, seeing as the palace seems to clean itself anyway, and pulls the door open with a huff.

A short hallway opens into a chamber that’s as imposing as it is cold. The windows are twice the height of the Beast and look out onto undetermined foliage. The floors creak underfoot, and a shiver runs down Kyungsoo’s spine as he lowers the lantern. The room is empty but for a table, which Kyungsoo approaches, careful steps on oil-soaked feet.

On the table is a family portrait; it is badly faded, so much so that the faces of the parents are merely smudges. The little boy, however, is still in sharp focus. Inquisitive feline eyes, intense for so young a child. There’s something familiar about the weight of his gaze, fierce yet gentle.

In front of the portrait is a torch ginger flower, petals littering the table. It is half-naked, but still a bright, waxy red. Kyungsoo reaches out, fingertips brushing against the smooth thick ridge of a petal but—

A roar breaks the silence. Kyungsoo drops the lamp, oil soaking into the painting, his shirt, his pants, the thin cotton slippers; the scent of plumerias is unbearable now, clogging his every breath. He turns to face the Beast, expecting bared teeth and the ferocity of a wild animal’s eyes, but what he sees is sorrow. The Beast hangs his head, eyes closed as he heaves a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo whimpers, body atremble. “I didn’t really want to, it’s like something possessed me—”

“I know,” the Beast says. “I feared as much.”

A strong wind blows and the palace groans in protest.

“What’s going on?” Kyungsoo asks, stepping closer to the Beast.

“The witch is coming for me,” says the Beast. “I was human, once. A proud young prince. The witch wanted to marry me, but I rejected her, and so she cursed me to become a beast. If only you had waited a year, then the curse would have been lifted.” Guilt strangles Kyungsoo’s heart. “I suspected she had enchanted the Eastern Wing, Kyungsoo, you do not need to feel responsible. The temptation of her spell was such that none would be able to resist it.”

But I wanted to, Kyungsoo wanted to say. He doesn’t, in part because behind him, an andesite pillar cracks.

“Where is she taking you?” he asks, placing a hand in the Beast’s fur.

The Beast begins to fade, letting out a snuffle of a sigh, so gentle and hopeless that Kyungsoo’s heart breaks all over again. “To a palace east of the sun and west of the moon. You cannot reach me there. I only hope you can find happiness on this island.”

Kyungsoo wants to tell the Beast that’s impossible; he wants to tell the Beast that happiness is twining himself in the Beast’s molten fur, that happiness is resting his cheek on the Beast’s paws while the night breeze brings the sweet perfume of night jasmine, that happiness is the Beast’s great head on his lap as they read stories between the incense-clad pages of the library’s books. And yet he finds he cannot speak, nothing but a trembling inhalation before the Beast is gone.

But he has little time to mourn. The palace continues its mournful dirge of creaks and cracks, the walls peeling themselves into nothingness. Kyungsoo starts to run, muttering a string of curses when his oil-slicked feet nearly betray him; yet that becomes the least of his worries, because he cannot find his way out. The palace is a labyrinth, a dark strange place of decay being torn apart from under his very feet.

Kyungsoo throws himself to the ground and curls up, head cradled in his arms; just like that, the cacophony of the dying palace disappears, replaced by the chirp of birds and the gentle rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. He lifts his head, breath catching when he realizes there is no palace. He’s curled up on a pile of ferns, surrounded by vine-choked palms and moss-covered stone. The desire to cry overwhelms him; he knows not whether to sob, to scream, to beat the earth with his fists—

He settles for crying until his eyes burn, until there are no more tears left to spare. Then he sits in a daze, staring at the fronds dance in the breeze.

Until he finds he can’t stand it anymore. He pulls himself off his feet, determined to do _something._ So he picks his way across what looks to be an overgrown path; he’s once more reminded that he does not belong here, in this place so foreign. He does not recognize its patterns, its subtle differences, so it is with already ragged hope that he decides this haphazard, foot-wide indentation in the foliage will act as a path. Without the Beast or the marmoset to guide him he finds he has little confidence, but the island can only be so big, can it not? Sooner or later he’ll stumble upon the coastline and follow it back to town. Or so he hopes.

As luck would have it, he stumbles upon a cabana first. He recognizes it from his carriage ride to the palace, quaint but well-kept, with stylized floral motifs carved into the wooden panels. He knocks on the door and waits and sighs, squeezing his eyes shut in a vain effort to keep the heat at bay.

For some reason, he was expecting a crone to open the door. Instead he is greeted by a young girl, almost dwarfed by her black curls, dressed in bright yellow-orange barkcloth.

“Oh, um, are your parents home?” he asks.

The girl snorts. “I’m older than _you._ ”

“Oh, sorry,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

“Ai, don’t mention it,” she huffs, throwing a mass of curls over her shoulder. “The witch came for him, didn’t she?” she asks.

“Yes,” Kyungsoo blurts, blinking in surprise.

She sucks her teeth, hands on her hips. He waits for an explanation, but the girl does not seem like she is willing to give one, so he stands there, confusion written in the furrow of his brow.

“I do not know how to reach the witch’s palace, but my sister does. Take this and go to her. She lives in the next cabana,” she says, holding up a golden candlenut for him to take. “Go, before it’s too late.”

She presses the candlenut into the palm of his hand and gives him a gentle shove. When he stumbles only two steps, she gestures for him to hurry, fingers flailing as she does so.

“Thank—” he begins, but his voice bounces off a closed door. “—you.”

He stares at the door for a moment, bewildered. Then he sets on the path again, fern fronds tangling at his ankles.

The next door opens to reveal a girl in her teens, almost identical to the little girl from the first house, but she is dressed in blues and greens, earrings of bright red coral hanging from her ears.

“Ah,” is all she says before she dips into the house.

“You can come in, you know,” she calls out, so Kyungsoo steps in.

“Ah, I wasn’t sure,” Kyungsoo murmurs. “Your little sister—”

“—doesn’t have the best manners,” she says, sighing. “Can you believe she’s actually the oldest of us?”

Kyungsoo _can’t_ believe it, actually, but he does not say so. Instead he takes in the house, the wicker seats and the fishing lines, the half-mended net, the hammock facing a porch with a view of the lagoon. He’s pretty sure they’re still within the confines of the valley, still embraced on either side by rugged verdant rock, but he suspects things might not quite make sense on this island.

“She said you might know how to reach the palace east of the sun and west of the moon,” Kyungsoo says cautiously.

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know either, but here, take this and go to my sister. She lives in the last cabana,” she says, placing a golden mussel shell in his hand. “I wish you luck, little Beauty.”

Kyungsoo bows, ears red when he remembers this is not the custom of this place, but the girl gives him a gracious smile as he stumbles back out. For curiosity’s sake (as if that wasn’t what got him into this situation in the first place), Kyungsoo peeks behind the cabana where the porch was, and there’s nothing but green. With a shiver, he walks back to the path.

The third door reveals a woman about Kyungsoo’s age, her hair braided around her head. She wears greens and yellows, a crown of royal poincianas sprouting from the braid like sparks of fire; around her neck, an intricate necklace of interlocking pieces of wood, polished to a warm shine.

“H-hi,” he says.

“Hello, Beauty,” she says with a smile. “I was expecting you. Come in.”

Kyungsoo follows her in, and for a second he thinks he is still outside. There’s a riot of plants inside, from ma’o hau hele to coral hibiscus to a ti tree in a heavy clay pot.

“I believe I know who can help you reach the palace,” she says, interrupting his inspection of a cluster of plumbagos.

“You do?” Kyungsoo asks, voice breathy.

“The summer monsoon is a strong wind. It will not be comfortable, for she is humid and heavy and full of storms, but she will take you,” the woman says. “Here, take this and go to the eastern ridge above where the tiger’s palace used to be. There you will find her.” She places a miniature golden frog in his hand.

“The tiger’s palace?” Kyungsoo asks. “What’s a tiger?”

“Well, what the prince was turned into, of course,” she answers.

“So he’s not a beast?”

“Goodness no!” the woman says with a laugh. “Ah, I forget it used to be called the Palace of a Thousand Flowers. He was probably nostalgic enough to keep calling it that.”

“Oh,” Kyungsoo says softly. Perhaps it was the Beast’s attempt at living life as it once was, before being cursed. The thought of that makes guilt weigh so heavily on Kyungsoo’s heart he almost lets out a sob. “I should go.”

“Yes, that would be best,” she says. “Come, I will let you out back, it will take you closer.”

Kyungsoo bites back the question; after seeing the lagoon where it should not have been, it’s prudent to keep his mouth shut. That does not, however, stop the shock from escaping him in the form of a cough when the woman opens a door hidden behind climbing ylang-ylang that leads to a narrow trail up the mountain.

“Stop when you find the stone with the tiger’s paw,” she says to him.

Kyungsoo wants to ask her what comes next, but she gives him a gentle shove and closes the door. He turns to face the trail; when he peeks over his shoulder, the cabana is gone. Kyungsoo allows himself an unsteady breath before he begins to climb.

The ridge offers a vantage point of the valley in which the palace used to be. Now there is only lush jungle, bracketed by mountain folds and ringed by the blue-green lagoon. The wind is constant, cutting through the sweat-soaked cotton until he begins to shiver. Still, it does not take him long to find the stone with the tiger’s paw (though he does not know if time flies because of his determination or through some magical means; he finds he’d rather not know the answer).

He waits for the wind to change, for a difference in the way it howls and whistles; instead, cold settles into his bones, so deep and sharp he finds himself desiring the sluggish heat of the midday sun.

Then he hears a whistling chirp from within his pocket. Kyungsoo takes out his possessions with stiff hands and nearly drops them; the golden frog lets out another indignant chirp, then hops from his hands.

Kyungsoo lets out a colorful expletive and drops to his knees; he grits his teeth against the pain, scrambling to catch the frog, but it sits itself squarely in the tiger paw and begins to sing.

The wind changes.

It is as if the sky has exhaled, the air hot and thick and a welcome respite from the cold. But that relief lasts only a moment, because the wind brings with it a fast moving storm, a swell of clouds that crest above the ridge and swallow Kyungsoo whole.

He wants to scream, to run, to throw himself from the ridge into the safety of the herbage below. As soon as the thought passes his mind, the wind picks him up off his feet, swallowing up his voice, the frog’s song.

In response, thunder. Yet this is no ordinary thunder. It is _speaking_ to him.

_I am the monsoon wind. I am that which floods the earth and births storms that stretch across the entirety of the sky. If you wish to go to the palace east of the sun and west of the moon, I am the wind that can take you there._

Kyungsoo has no voice, but somehow the wind knows his answer is yes.

_It will not be pleasant, for I am a wind of turbulence and rain, of torrents and of the crackle of lightning and the rumble of thunder._

And again, the wind knows Kyungsoo does not care about those discomforts, for his desire to save the Beast is greater than any grief a storm can give him.

_Very well, then we leave at once._

And pleasant it is not. It takes a day, but in that day the islands flood, the rivers in the north are overrun, and on the sea a great many ships are tossed and thrown. Kyungsoo is in the heart of this wind, a place so thick with humidity he can hardly breathe. His hair is plastered against his skin, the cotton of his clothes soaked; he no longer knows if the moisture on his skin is from the storm or if it’s his own sweat. The mugginess makes him drowsy, but it is so intense he cannot sleep well, so he sleeps in fits, lulled by the torrent of rain beneath him, though thunder jostles him awake often.

But at last, the wind leaves him on the shore of the witch's palace. Kyungsoo thanks it, and it responds with hearty thunder, which he thinks is a chuckle.

Now, the palace.

It is the antithesis of the palace of a thousand flowers. This palace is a cold place, a place of metal and stone, of pearlescent white crags that pierce the ice-blue sky, a place surrounded by nothing more than emptiness. It makes Kyungsoo feel awfully small.

He still takes a step towards the gate, meek as it swings open.

The witch is as cold as her palace. Her skin is ice-white, her hair a curtain of flax, golden in the brilliant light within the throne room. She wears a cruel smile, and her eyes, oh her terrible eyes. They are the same ice-blue of the sky, flat and beautiful and awful. If not for the strength of her malice she would seem fragile, a sculpture of brittle ice, her blue veins like cracks upon thawing glaciers.

“So, you are the one who brought my prince back to me,” she says; her voice is clipped with frost, yet with a richness that reminds Kyungsoo of home, of the north, with its unforgiving cold and its black earth, earth that flowed with milk and honey.

“I come here to free him from you,” Kyungsoo says.

The witch throws her head back and laughs. Then she stands, the smoke-blue of her dress spilling onto the steps of the throne, and looks down at him.

“And what do you have to offer in exchange?”

Nothing. He has nothing. Dread chokes him, a feeling so acute it prickles against the back of his throat and leaves him without a voice. Who is he to ask this of her? A mendicant demanding a fortune from the most sumptuous czar.

“I can give you a light that will never go out,” he says softly, extricating the golden candlenut from his pocket. “A source of warmth that will never turn to ash.” He sets it aflame, cradling it in his palms.

The witch snorts. “I am a creature of winter, Beauty. I do not _need_ warmth.” She walks down the steps and circles him, a predator studying her prey. “Yes, you are a Beauty, I recognize that much. It would be idiotic to think you are not, with those eyes, those lips.” She circles him once more, trailing her sharp nails across his cheek. “I’m almost tempted to keep you as another pet.”

He tells himself he cannot react. The Beast’s life is on the line; he cannot risk angering her prematurely.

Still, it slips past his lips before he can stop himself.

“The warmth is to thaw out your heart,” he says.

The witch fixes her eyes on him, lips pursed as she regards him coldly. Then, a wicked grin.

“You should shed some of that warmth yourself, Beauty,” the witch says, turning to walk back to the throne. “This world is no place for an eyeful like you to be so soft. Frigidity gives you power.”

He looks down at the candlenut, smoldering in his hands, then at the witch.

“I suppose I should rid myself of this warmth,” he says.

The witch chuckles, heels clacking against the cold floor. Kyungsoo weighs the candlenut, measures the distance between himself and the witch, and takes a breath.

The candlenut crosses the hall in an arc and lands on the crystalline train of her dress, a brilliant little comet that splashes among the stars. In an instant, the fabric is ablaze. The witch shrieks, but Kyungsoo does not wait to see if she is consumed by flame. He breaks into a run, oil-slicked sandals slipping on the cold marble floor. The palace is labyrinthine, and he hears nothing but his footsteps and the gallop of his own heart, but somehow he finds himself in the same room as the Beast.

“Kyungsoo, what are you doing here?” the Beast asks.

“Saving you, but we don’t have much time,” Kyungsoo says.

The Beast does not move, and it is then that Kyungsoo sees the heavy chain tethering him to the wall.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get us out,” Kyungsoo says. He takes out the golden mussel shell and strikes the chain, over and over until each rattle reverberates in his bones.

“You should not have come for me, Beauty,” the Beast says softly. “The witch is cruel, she will kill you.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you,” Kyungsoo hisses.

The mussel shell shatters, but the chain shatters with it. Kyungsoo lets out his breath in a relieved sigh and turns to hook his fingers under the Beast’s collar—

The witch shrieks, a high pitched scream that sends Kyungsoo to his knees, hands over ears.

“You will not take him from me!” she cries, hand outstretched.

Kyungsoo braces himself for bite of her nails against his skin, but a blast of air knocks him over instead. It was the Beast’s roar, so mighty it sends the witch into the wall.

“Cover your ears, Beauty,” the Beast rumbles.

Kyungsoo does, eyes darting between the ripple of muscle under the Beast’s molten fur and the murderous look on the witch’s face.

“What are you doing?” he whimpers.

“Saving you,” the Beast says.

It braces itself, claws digging into the white marble as it shows its canines. A roar builds in its throat, one so powerful the walls crack, the roof is knocked askew, and the floor splits. Kyungsoo faints.

—

When he comes to he’s on the island. The palace of a thousand flowers stretches out before him, but it is only a shadow of its former beauty; the grounds are unkempt, almost swallowed by the jungle proper. The pillars are cracked, the roof sloping dangerously to one side, the balcony slipping off its foundations. The damage of the witch’s palace, reflected in the Beast’s. Still, Kyungsoo does not hesitate to run inside, shoving the doors open.

The marmoset awaits him at the entrance, a pitiful lump on the ground that Kyungsoo almost does not see. He picks it up and cradles it close, biting back a sob when the little creature points a weak hand down the right hallway. They make their way around the palace like this until they end up in front of the massive doors of the East Wing. Kyungsoo takes a deep breath and squeezes past them, careful not to jostle them as they hang from their hinges.

Kyungsoo almost does not see him. The Beast is a dismal pile of fur and bones, emaciated and weak; the sight of so great a creature reduced to this tears what is left of Kyungsoo’s heart from his chest. He throws himself on the Beast with a cry and buries his face in the Beast’s matted fur. The marmoset hops onto the ground with an offended squeak.

“I’m sorry,” Kyungsoo sobs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The Beast heaves out a chuckle that rattles between its fragile ribs. “You’ve set me free, Kyungsoo.”

A sniffle, a furrowed brow. Kyungsoo tangles his fingers in the Beast’s fur and sits back.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean the witch’s curse is broken,” the Beast says.

“But the palace? And you? Everything is in ruins.”

“Shedding a curse is a painful thing,” the Beast murmurs. “But it will pass.”

Then the Beast begins to stand, but its body is all wrong. The once sturdy legs flop like tentacles, the torso ripples and heaves like land in a violent earthquake. Kyungsoo shuffles back, so focused on the Beast that he notices nothing else but the way it seems to grow and burble. He’s ready to scream, confused terror coiling in his throat, but when the Beast stands upon two legs—

A man. Inquisitive, intense eyes, black hair that ripples in the morning light, skin like satinwood. Naked, but Kyungsoo doesn’t mind. The pelt pools at his feet, claws like polished opals. Behind him, the palace flourishes. The pillars stand taller than they did before, the wood burnished to a most inviting gleam, the bamboo silk curtains with nary a hole in sight, vines of ylang-ylang framing each window, exhaling their sweet perfume into the room with each breeze.

“Oh,” Kyungsoo says breathily.

“Your love set me free,” the man says.

“And what can I call you, my love?” Kyungsoo says, a blush on his cheeks.

“My love is just fine,” the man says with a wry smile. “But my name is Jongin.”

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo savors it. He says it again, blushing at the sight of Jongin’s smile.

“The way you say my name makes my heart flutter,” Jongin says.

He holds out a hand and helps Kyungsoo up.

“I think I need practice,” Kyungsoo murmurs, bumping his nose against Jongin’s. “In different contexts, different tones.”

“I think that sounds reasonable,” Jongin says, closing the distance between their lips.


End file.
